untitled
by UNICORNSFROMOUTERSPACE
Summary: masochistic, red-haired, non conformist drabbles.


I do not own south park.  
i'm not that big on writing, but i figured i would try my hand at it.

I wrote this for someone c: and i dedicate it and post it for them!  


* * *

It was rough and it was meaningless. It smelled of spice and tasted of ash. It made me lose myself  
momentarily and it made me hate. Flesh met wood when my body cascaded through a tangle of sheets  
and onto the floor, not bothering to regain posture, the cold hard surface was comforting as it splintered  
my cheeks. I was tired, but you insisted on making me your plaything once more, and I obliged because  
who could say no to you.

It was only I. Who found your eyes captivating as they tore me limb from limb, your skin so beautiful as  
it feverishly bruised my own, your voice so low when it whispered promises and promises along my neck  
and my spine but fell short of my ears. We cannot love you would tell me, because that is conformist,  
and we hate conformists.

This time you plucked cherry pinpricks from my skin that began to flow as rivers do, you smeared it onto  
your face like war paint, and it made chills go down my spine. You tell me you murdered me, with a  
devilish grin, but it's what you tell me next that ignites that spark in your eyes, the one that scares me.  
The one that makes me feel immortal.

Once again you're lying next to me smoking cigarette upon cigarette and I choke silently beside you and  
when you press that burning end into my skin my body screams, my face contorts into sick pleasure.  
There is nobody more perfect for each other than us, my need to feel such pain, such pleasure, such  
emptiness, and your absolute need to inflict it.

You brush your bloody fingers across my cheekbone and you smile at me, not the sort of smile those  
fucking conformists plaster all over their faces, its sombre and it hides nothing, it means everything to me.

Accompanying the ache in my guts is something else this time, something alien, something alive.  
It was born in my stomach, and it now flutters against the walls of the cavity that is my chest.  
It's a slightly euphoric feeling, mingled with nausea. I hate it, I don't know what it is and I hate it.  
It makes my heart beat faster and louder and faster and louder and it makes me anxious.

You startle me when you walked back into the room, and I wondered why I hadn't notice you leave.

I gulp down the handful of small sugar coated painkillers I spent most of the day looking for. You were  
not here to find them for me. I needed you, and it felt disgusting and it made me feel warm and that  
stopped me in my tracks because I have never once felt anything for you.

My shoulder aches where you drew blood, and the tiny crescent marks that track up my arm almost  
shine when the light hits them right. This is when you told me you were tired of it, and I didn't have to  
ask you what you meant by it, because I was tired of it too.

You kissed me shortly after and it made my stomach turn, in that unpleasant fluttery way again. This  
wasn't rough, and it didn't taste like lust. It was sweeter and I didn't quite hate it. You made me feel  
insecure and scared and helpless. How fucking conformist. But this time you didn't make me feel anger,  
and I don't know if I should thank you for that.

You still held my arms so tight that they bruised, but this time you traced them like a map with your  
fingers and apologized softly. You probably expected it to make me feel awful, I was expecting it too,  
but we were both surprised when I laced the bruised fingers into yours and hummed an acceptance  
into your chest.

You used the table as an ashtray this time, and I was angry because I longed for that burn, I was angry  
because actually I longed for your fingertips on my skin, not your cigarette. My anger made you smile,  
but this time it wasn't sombre, and this time I didn't think it meant anything to me. But then I realised  
moments later I could not get it out of my head because it meant more than everything.

You still liked it rough, and I still craved the bruises, you never stopped smelling of spices, and tasting  
like ash. You still smile that devilish grin and you still quicken my pulse and I still feel unstoppable, you  
still bite me and fuck me like I mean nothing to you, you still kiss me and my stomach still flutters,

And I still really don't love you.

* * *


End file.
